Muggy Night
by scuttlesworth
Summary: Dex and Rita meet some muggers. Rated M for Dexter being Dexter. Comments very welcome. :


I have to be normal. I have to be normal. I have to be normal.

This would all be so much easier if Rita were't here.

If Rita weren't here, I'd give up my wallet but I'd drop it. When the little one went for it, I'd crouch with him, get his neck in a good strong hold and use him as a human shield against the one with the gun. I'd take the gun and pistol-whip them both before I left them in the alley to wake up bruised and bloody. Sadly, even if Rita were at home I couldn't risk taking these two out to a nice secluded spot for some fun; this alley is too public, and I might be seen. Which doesn't seem to be worrying these idiots. How can they possibly expect to get away with a mugging in such a public environment? What are they thinking?

They're not thinking. Rita wasn't thinking. How could she be so stupid? Even as innocent as she is, she must have a survival instinct. But then, she's a mother. That instinct is always stronger, or so I'm told. The little one must have been bait. They didn't realize she wasn't alone. Now the big one has her in a chokehold, gun to her neck, and the little one is jittering around nervously.

Can I take him, use him as counter-hostage? Too risky, and it'll let my disguise slip. Which brings me to the sticking point: what's more important here? Rita, or my disguise?

I've been looking at them as the same thing for so long, but now that flaw is forcibly brought home. Rita herself as a person, or Rita the shiny girlfriend-shaped alibi? As a good killer, Rita the Alibi should be my priority. Even if it gets her tragically killed. Right?

Right?

Apparently not. My mind is spinning, but a thought pops out: If she gets tragically killed, I loose my cover. I loose my alibi now, and for months and months of playing the annoying grieving boyfriend act in the future. No girlfriend to say "Yes, he was at my house last night" when I'm out making merry with merciless mirth. Instead, Dexter becomes "The sad fellow who stayed home alone where nobody saw him", a much more likely suspect.

Rita is necessary. Besides. Astor and Cody would be very upset if their mother died.

Dashing Dexter has to get her out of this intact. And himself, of course. No need to go spilling his own precious fluids in the process.

"Easy," our hero says, a look of suitable alarm plastered across his noble face. "Easy now, just let the lady go, ok? Here, I have money." Wallet out of pocket, dangle billfold from a couple fingers. Some green slips temptingly from the open end. Their eyes lock onto it, visions of needles chock-full of smack dancing in their heads. Dexter the Daringly Deceitful eases forward, eyes on Big Thug, waving the wallet gently, offering it up. Little fellow stops jittering for a moment.

Now. I move fast, grab the gun and twist it up sharply. Big Thug cries out in pain as something in his hand snaps, Rita screams, the wallet drops and I grab her and yank sharply. The gun clatters to the ground and Rita tumbles into my arms in perfect action-hero fashion.

Little Thug pulls out a knife.

I shove Rita towards the alley's opening. "Run!" My voice is loud, possibly even sounding panicked. I hope it sounds panicked. Hard to get these tones just right, sometimes. But the dear girl, she takes flight like a bunny, racing for the safety of the public street. Then I feel a sting on my side and I whip around to find Little Thug poking at me with something sharp and shiny, and Big Thug groping on the ground with his one good hand for the lost automatic. Neither of these are Good Things for our fine flesh. They must be halted at once.

Fortunately, Little Thug has no training, no finesse and no real grasp of knifework. It's easy to sway past his guard and twist the knife from his wrist. Less fortunately, Big Thug has found his pop-gun toy and is standing up.

Back to the beginning; this is much easier with Rita gone. Little Thug immediately becomes my hostage, his own knife held to his throat. Big Thug is staring, broken fingers cradled to his chest, gun extended in the wrong hand. Wobbly. I eye him with disdain.

"Really, now. I have your friend here and you're still aiming that thing at me?" No need for a false face of panic anymore; I let the mask slip. My passenger is wide awake and grinning with gleaming teeth; I let them shimmer in my own mouth, lips pulled back. Big Thug flinches. "Who's been naughty?" I say in a sing-song voice, and twist the knife a tiny bit into Little Thug's neck. He lets out a keening wail, and a sudden hot urine smell tells me that he's lost control over more than his voice. I feel my lip curl in disgust and eye the top of his head. God only knows what diseases he has. I could be catching lice. The knife he stuck me with could have been used to carve into any number of unsavory things. I imagine him using it to clean under his grimy fingernails, and shudder.

Time to get this over with. "Drop the gun," I say briskly, shifting my gaze back to Big Thug. He looks far less Big, now, shaking his head and backing up. He looks like this did not go his way and that fact has unraveled his favorite sweater. Abruptly, he turns and runs, leaving me holding his nasty little baggage.

A noise at the alley mouth brings me back to the situation. Public, thugs, and Dexter with a knife at the throat of a little alley-rat. This will never do. I push the boy away and wave the knife menacingly at him. "Scram," I suggest. "Vaya Con Dios. Andele." He scampers, eyes huge and glancing back at me. I wipe the knife off and drop it onto the ground, then glance around for my wallet.

I'm trying to get some nasty liquid off my nice leather wallet without getting it onto anything else, like my pants or shirt, when Rita arrives with the police. I look up and plaster a stunned expression on my face. "Dexter! Oh thank god, I was so worried you were hurt!" She throws her arms around me and squeezes. I hold the wallet away from her. No need to get this goop on her dress either. It makes me look amazingly idiotic, standing there in a grubby alley with a pretty women dangling off my neck and my hands flapping uselessly. And bleeding. Mustn't forget the bleeding.

"Rita darling urk!" is what I manage to get out as her chokehold cuts off my air.

"Dexter I was so terrified and you were so brave and stupid! How could you put yourself at risk like that? You should never have tried to do that, he could have shot you! What would we do if you were shot?" She pulls back, tearful eyes gazing beseechingly at me. I gawp. What? She's yelling at me? I was the hero! I should get kisses, fawning, adoration! Instead I get a scolding, like Cody after a mishap with matches.

The scolding continues as she holds my hands, until she notices the sticky residue on my wallet. That leads directly to her noticing the slightly darker sticky residue on my shirt, right next to the knife-hole. She squeaks, screeches, and hauls me with a surprising strength out of the alley and over to a standing policeman.

"Stabbed!" She cries at him, pointing quite dramatically to my side, and I manage to dredge up a modest look of pain. If I can't be the Dark Avenger, I need to be the Sappy Victim. Much less suited to my temperament. Really, who could possibly believe that such a strong figure as myself could manage to pull off the act? Still, my skills at portraying a wide range of stereotypes are vast, and over the years I've seen enough miserable victims to know how to copy their every move. I stare down at my side, then up at the police officer. He looks unimpressed at my modest wound. And rightly so; Rita, on the other hand, hauls me off to a nearby cafe chair to press a handful of tissues against the injury while we wait for the inevitable ambulance.

Left to my own devices, I'd disinfect and patch myself without a second thought. I've done it before. But this is public, and an overt example of machismo from a modest lab geek would be very strange to see; so I let her fuss and do my best to look wounded and in pain.

There is, of course, a scene. The ambulance comes; the police interview commences. Rita blames herself; she stepped away from me to look at some jewelry, and there was the boy looking so pathetic and injured. Bait. I don't mention my Passenger's rustle of wings sending me racing over to her. No need; I merely say I saw her step into the alley and became concerned, as it seemed out of character for pretty Rita to wander alone into anyplace so squalid. Not in those words, of course; I add a few pained grunts and winces while the ambulance attendant does the peroxiding and bandaging. Debra arrives in a cloud of curses. She sees my bloody side and torn shirt and promptly punches me in the bicep. Hard. Debra has very, very sharp knuckles. I wince and rub my arm in pain.

"Sister dearest - "

"Fucking a, Dex! What the fuck did you do?"

Rita intervenes. "Debra! He was so brave. He saved my life. I've never been so afraid." Which is a lie, of course, but one she obviously believes at the moment. She would have been vastly more afraid of her first husband than she ever could be of two anonymous thugs. Kind of her to say so, though. Debra, however, does not seem to be buying the story.

"Dex? Seriously, Dexter saved your life?" She snorts. I manage to look injured. Rita ignores my sister's healthy skepticism and gazes at me with what I can only think must be happiness. The expression on her face and the tone of her voice do not match her words, though, and I am once again adrift. "He took a terrible risk. I'm very upset with him." Oh, for the happy minutes spent in the more direct pursuits of terrifying little alleyway bandits mere feet from here.

I avoid the hospital, despite Rita's worry - my sister's careless assessment of my injury helps calm Rita's fears more than my own protestations of health, which seems quite backwards. Shouldn't I be the one who would know my own physical state? Apparently not. Deb's dismissal of my little cut seems to reassure Rita, and for this I am so grateful to my sister that I almost forgive the arm-punch.

My statement that the thieves argued over my wallet and ran away when I mentioned Rita calling the cops was accepted without real question. Without real interest, even; police are more than willing to accept any story in which a criminal behaves stupidly. It's routine stuff to them, this constant dealing with idiocy. The location of the mugging helped; it was so open that the police shook their heads in wonder that the criminals had dared at all. At that comment, I mentioned their emaciated appearance, scabby hands, track marks; drugs explain very entry everyone in irrationality. All in all, a fine little act, one I had completely covered. I felt a warm glow of self-satisfaction at such a completely believed set of small lies.

It's the little things that make you happy. Then bored, then desperate for a shower to get the itchy residue of the fight and the alley off my skin. Rita and I finally at last headed back to our car, statements taken, complete lack of encouragement from the police duly noted, all returning to normal. And there, in the parking lot around the corner from the crime scene, Little Thug and Big Thug lay in wait for us.

I'm not one to swear, but honestly: Un-be-fucking-lievable. There were still police just around the corner, it was the middle of a wide open space, I had just quite literally scared the piss out of one of them, and yet here they were; gun and knife respectively in hand, popping up from behind one of the cars on our path with resentment in their eyes. Even my dark passenger was caught by surprise by such egregious idiocy. Rita squeaked in shock, which broke me for my fish-mouthed trance.

I got annoyed.

Then I got angry.

Astor and Cody were already wondering where we were; we were late and the sitter wouldn't stay forever. Especially not at the rate we were aping her. My pleasant day of strolling and shopping with Rita, showing off to the world what a devoted boyfriend I was had descended into an hour and a half of sitting around getting my side inspected by men in white uniforms while my account of the unfortunate event was discussed by beat cops, I had been punched by my lovely sister, and these morons were disrespecting the lovely display of threatening predation I had allowed them the opportunity to enjoy.

The Dark passenger slid up into the front seat before I could have a second thought, taking over. He knew what to do with them, oh yes. I moved forward faster than either of them seemed to expect. Which was sad, really; hadn't I already shown them what to expect from me? What deluded thinking had gone on that had persuaded them this second attempt would go any better than the first?

It wasn't my best work, I'll admit; I prefer to work with less blunt instruments than fists. But the satisfying crack of a breaking nose sings a song even I can enjoy, and Big Thug went down like a lump. The gun dropped from his hand with a clatter. I kicked it a little to the side to be sure, then turned my gaze over to his smaller friend.

Little Thug danced back in shock. Maybe he wasn't expecting such a direct confrontation. Maybe my previous cringing act in the beginning had made him think there was a chance I'd stick to the same pattern, giving in at first and fighting back after, at which point they'd simply shoot me this time. Impossible to tell. But my Dark Passenger looked over at him and saw nothing but bones and muscles to take apart and reorganize, and he must have seen that in my eyes; he skipped backwards, face pale, and ran like Rita had earlier.

Rita. Uh-oh.

My Dark Passenger contemplated her, standing behind me, staring at my back. It paused thoughtfully, then retreated. Down the corridors of my mind I glared at it. "Coward," I muttered, feeling very alone and human and suddenly exposed. No time like the present. I turned to Rita. Time to look anxious.

She was standing there, her mouth open, hands pressed to her lips. Eyes huge. I reached out to touch her and she flinched from me. I froze, shocked.

Rita? Flinched?

Of course, she sued to be very jumpy when we first met. Her first husband had seen to that. Every time a man raised his hand to scratch his receding hairline her tension racketed up a notch; every time a male voice lifted in annoyance she paled. But she was over that. Dating the Deeply Boring Dexter had cured those twitches through sheer blandness and endless inane smiles.

Deeply Boring Dexter had just punched out a thug in front of her, showing a disturbing propensity for violence. Oh dear.

"Rita," I said, hoping my tone didn't scream "murdering psychopath looking to backpedal his way out of trouble". "Rita, honey, please don't look so afraid. You're safe now, Rita, please. He's out cold." Her breath hitched and her glance shot from him to me and back. Probably not the best time to point him out again, idiot boy. "Rita, we need to get the police so they can arrest him." She managed a jerky nod at that. "Can you do that? Can you run and get the police?" She stared at me for a moment, then turned and ran. Away. From me. As though I were the thug.

I felt….abandoned. A little bit betrayed. And maybe, a little touch of indigestion. Was this what emotional hurt felt like? This acidic crawling up your throat, this hollow feeling as though you're hungry, but couldn't eat a bite? I stood stock still, the novel thought seeping up through my mind that this could be an emotion. I might be hurt. Emotionally hurt. Because Rita had rejected me. How interesting! How new!

How horrible. If this was an emotion, I wanted nothing to do with it. It felt terrible. The police saved me from it, however, charging around the corner with guns drawn, jogging up to find my would-be thief groaning and trying to sit up. They pounced on him as though he were a pinata

full of donuts, eagerly handcuffing him and hauling him off to the squad car. Those unlucky enough to be too slow headed towards me, clipboards in hand, and I groaned inwardly.

There went any chance of avoiding an incredible babysitting bill. And my stunned expression was wearing a little thin. And here came Debra, jogging towards me, face full of righteous wrath. My arm gave a preemptive twinge of pain.

"Dexter what the FUCK!" she roared, and this time my wince and stunned expression was real. My sister has an amazingly loud voice when she yells. I tried to get ahead of the oncoming tirade.

"He had a gun," I say, and this seems to be exactly the wrong thing to say because she opens her mouth and her face turns red. "Pointed at Rita," I add desperately, and - miracle! - this seems to be exactly the right thing to say, all around. The police nod sagely, Debra's fury vanishes, and Rita.

Rita looks up at me from behind the nearest policeman with sudden shock and wide uncertain eyes. I blink and feel a little bit like the monkey with his hand in a jar full of nuts: stuck. I scramble for the right words. Instead, I tell the truth. "I saw the gun pointed at you and got angry. I'm sorry, Rita. I know you said you didn't want me to, I know it was violent and reminded you of… but he made me so angry." I clamp my mouth shut. Dammit. What the hell am I thinking, blabbering about this in front of a bunch of cops? Rita's heard every excuse in the book for violent behavior. She'll never forgive… why is she running at me crying?

Why, for the love of all that is sharp and shiny, is she hugging me so hard she's in danger of reopening my side? And soaking my shirt? I carefully pat her shoulders, terrified. Is this assault a good thing?

The police seem to think so, smirking at me. Debra, my hardcore sister with a heart made from asphalt and coal dust, has a sentimental look on her face. She claps me on the shoulder and walks off, leaving me standing there with a sobbing Rita blubbering incoherent things into my shirt.

Here, then, is another scene. In this one I am leaning against the car, Rita refusing to remove herself from my side. She seems to have become surgically attached; nothing will dissuade her to let go. It is another hour before we are allowed to leave, and only then with promises of future visits to the station to complete the paperwork. I am warned that I will end up in court on the stand, but for once I won't be discussing forensic medicine. For once I'll be there as a victim, not as an expert witness. How odd.

Then we are home, and Cody and Astor must hear an exhaustive (and carefully edited) version of the reason for our late return. They peer with interest at my bandage; Cody, in his tiny voice, asks if he can see the cut. Rita performs "shocked mother" very well and shuttles them off to bed.

That night in my own bed in my own apartment, I ponder the day. I ponder every reaction, going over it for appropriateness, for suitability, for fitting-in. I compare it to television scenarios, to the real life I observe, to Harry's training, and conclude: I haven't a clue why any of it happened. I am an emotional dunce. I do not comprehend the process. All is well, but I don't know why, and there's no Harry to explain it to me anymore. All a monster can do is lie in bed and be grateful to whatever it was that made today work out. To whatever it was that kept me looking normal to all the sheep.

I have to be normal. It's the only defense I have.


End file.
